archaic hearts and bones
by shen salazar
Summary: they’re all just heartless monsters filling their hearts with what they can’t understand. — chrollo-centric. troupe!vignette. contains death spoilers.


**in continents we burn,** and we find a place to heal.

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 _archaic hearts and bones_

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( let's remember what was never forgotten. )

The statues in the louvre took Chrollo's attention from the rest of their special escapade.

Chrollo wouldn't pertain to it as.. a 'vacation' per se, more like a distraction. Distraction from what the Troupe was becoming — from what it will become with Hisoka's mindgames and powerplays. It was a little more of a trip to wallow in their thoughts, to conclude any misleading feelings erupting from every death they call upon.

They went to different places. Machi suggested the ridiculous notion of it, as Chrollo would have been contented with resting in an isolated island rather than circling the globe turning over museums of art. The leader of the Troupe would not dare call the pieces laid out in front of him inadequate, as he considered himself a collector.

Luckily, to their advantage, the museum was private. It was something only those of the upper echelons were given access to.

"Dancho, there are.. about six present aristocrats in the museum. What's our move?" asked Phinks, amidst all of Chrollo's musings.

"None," conceded Chrollo in a whisper, "Give yourselves some time alone. Revel in what we can't after all of this is done. Please yourself with the ruins of this place and then come back to me, come back when you know you're done."

Phinks ought to believe that he misheard whatever Chrollo had said. But when he looked — truly looked — at their leader, there was a solemn expression of grace and fondness that was never supposed to be there, and yet, it was.

"Are we clear, Phinks?"

Phinks wore something like a ghost of a smile, "Affirmative."

And Chrollo watched him go. Without his shoulders meeting his ears in a tense posture, without his jaw set and rigid, without his eyes guarded by the things he didn't want anyone to see.

Chrollo thought that they were the only ones to have booked the private museum, but then perhaps not, maybe there were a few lost souls wandering around the vicinity, unaware of spiders watching their every move. But it was wrong, wasn't it? Why should his spiders take such measures against mere civilians when they could snap their necks faster than one can say 'no'? They were supposed to be... distracting themselves, yes?

They didn't need to cause a scene, for they should be allowing themselves to mourn. Mourn the missing parts of their chassis, their skeletons. His spiders should take their time paying respects to those who've moved on from this mortal world, and made their own legacy in another. They should have been remembering the memoirs of thunderstorms and deep ebony strands of hair matched with the once always lit flames in Uvogin's eyes; with the black silk dress suits full of auriferous bullets Pakunoda wore so proudly; with the glossy backdrops and grand cathedrals of gold that mirrored so much— too much of Shalnark's soul; with the languages far too old to know and silence so sorrowful yet serene and slow that was all Kortopi ever was.

The museum was full of sculptures of human beings. And Chrollo realized what their purpose here really was. Here, out of their usual business, out of their charade of misery. They were here to allow themselves some time to be human. To not be just mere animals with human skin. Not just spiders afraid to lose another leg — another soul.

The ceiling's high in the museum, and they are painted with frescos of angels and clouds filled with grandeur lights. They almost seemed like heaven, and Chrollo knows — wherever his spiders were in this vast place of a museum — that they were all under this same ceiling, and that they were all looking up to see the faux heaven that they hoped their fallen fellow spiders were, even though they knew they did not deserve heaven, telling them all stories they didn't manage to see and live.

Here, in this brief escapade, trip, detour, vacation — whatever you want to call it — (avowed) heartless monsters filled their hearts with something not quite like love, but just a feeling they grew to know and understand inside their souls.

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[s.] _vacations are sometimes not happy places. sometimes you go on them to heal and find yourself._


End file.
